Home for Christmas
by xpurebloodprofilersx
Summary: Emily spends Christmas undercover.


Clyde Easter had managed to slip a message to her on Christmas Eve.

 _The Ambassador phoned me yesterday,_ he'd written. _She was quite upset when I wouldn't give her your current number. Didn't you tell her you're under?_

 _Anyways, darling, I told her you won't be home for Christmas. I'm sorry you'll miss that horrid gala this year. We'll get you home for the next one, alright? I promise._

 _Merry Christmas. Stay safe._

Lauren had read the note while sipping a chai latte at her favorite coffee shop, a little privately-owned place located near the shopping center where she'd spent the entire day.

Clyde shouldn't have risked having an agent stick that note in her pocket. It was stupid. Anyone could've easily seen it — maybe thought that the man was stealing from her, and raised an alarm — and that could ruin the entire operation.

It'd been a dumb risk, but he'd taken it because — apparently — he'd thought it was important that Emily knew that her mother was thinking of her during the holidays. Even if it was just her asking about the stupid political gala again.

Emily started to resurface, wondering whether her mother _actually_ missed her, or if she was just asking after her for appearance's sake.

Lauren quickly threw her shields back up, blocking Emily out, and clenched her fist around the note, crumpling it into a little ball.

She shoved it into her coat pocket, grabbed her coffee and shopping bags, and swiftly exited the store.

After all, it was supposed to start snowing in a few hours, and she still had a bit more holiday shopping to do. If Clyde got her found out now, Declan wouldn't get that train set he'd been dreaming about since the summertime.

That would break her heart.

She didn't remember the note until she was back at the villa and had been trying to find her key — and her fingers, cold despite the mittens she'd been wearing, had brushed against the ball of paper in her pocket. She promptly tossed it into the fireplace.

It burned quickly.

She brought her shopping bags up to the master bedroom, hit the lock, and got to wrapping presents.

...

" _Wake up, wake up, it's Christmas!"_ little Declan Doyle shouted as he flung himself into Ian and Lauren's bed barely twelve hours later.

Lauren let out an _oof_ when the four-year-old landed on her stomach. "Dec, what _time_ is it?" she mumbled, scooting closer to Ian so Declan had some room.

"I don't know!" he exclaimed.

Lauren cracked an eye open and glanced towards the window. It was still dark outside. "Are you sure Santa even came yet?" she mumbled as Ian's arm snaked around her waist.

"San _ty_ ," they both corrected her, Declan emphatically and Ian in a half-asleep murmur.

"Santy," she corrected herself tiredly. The boys had told her this a billion times already: they were _Irish_ and therefore the man was called _Santy,_ not her weird American 'Santa.' "I think it's too early," she tried to convince him. "We have to sleep for a few more hours."

"Nooooo," Declan protested, his eyebrows pushed together in genuine concern. "Lauren, Santy really _did_ come already, the tree is here! And the presents!"

"You stinker," she accused. "You're not supposed to look until we're awake!"

"I know but I _really_ wanted to! Can we go open them now, _please_?"

"Alright," Lauren agreed, making Declan cheer and Ian groan – he wasn't quite ready to get out of bed yet. "Why don't you go get your Christmas blanket, and we'll meet you down there."

"Okay!" he yelled, and dashed out of the room.

"You're too nice to him," Ian accused, his face still buried in his pillow.

"It's Christmas," she pointed out, sitting up and stretching. "Do you know where my –"

"– I threw it that way," he said, gesturing vaguely towards their closet. Lauren reluctantly got out of bed to grab her panties off of the floor.

"Are you wearing anything?" she asked him and she tugged them back on.

"No," he told her. "When did you put my shirt on?"

"I don't know. I got cold at some point last night – good thing, too, or Dec might've seen a little too much. Put your pants on before he comes back."

"But I don't want to get _up_ ," Ian whined.

"So you want _me_ to make Christmas breakfast?" Lauren asked him tauntingly, knowing he'd never allow such a thing. She threw his pants onto him.

"Okay, fine, I'm awake," he agreed reluctantly, stepping into his sweatpants. "I'd rather the house _not_ burn down on Christmas Day."

"I'm not _that_ bad at cooking —"

"– Love," he interjected with his eyebrows raised, pulling her into his arms. "Your brownies had the same texture as chewing gum."

"But they _tasted_ fine," she reminded him as her lips curved into a smile. "And they did _not_ start on fire."

"Yeah, you're right. By some small miracle, they didn't start on fire."

She elbowed him playfully, and he pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her nose. "I love you, Lauren."

"Love you, too. Merry Christmas, Ian."

"Merry Christmas, Love. Now let's get downstairs before that boy starts unwrapping without us."

"Alright," she agreed, stepping into her slippers and grabbing one of the silky blankets from the bed. She wrapped it around her shoulders and followed the man that she'd fallen in love with down the stairs.

The Christmas tree was gorgeous — they'd done a great job with it, Lauren thought, considering that they'd put it up so quickly — and quietly.

Ian was adamant that Santy brought the tree with him, too. Which meant that they had to set it up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.

The tree couldn't just sit there from Thanksgiving to Christmas like it did in America.

So the pair of them had sneaked back downstairs after putting Declan to bed — no easy task, considering how excited he was. They lit the fireplace and poured some wine and started decorating.

They didn't get done until 2AM — and, once it was all put together, Lauren had stood back to admire it for a moment. The tree was tall, decorated with beautiful glass ornaments of all different shapes and sizes, gorgeous white lights, and bright silver tinsel. And the presents that she'd spent hours wrapping were arranged perfectly on the hand-embroidered tree skirt. The stockings hung over the fire, which had been burning low by that point — they read Ian, Declan, Lauren.

He'd bought one for her to match theirs.

Ian had taken one of the cookies they'd left for Santa then, and he took a large bite before offering the other one to her.

"Gotta leave crumbs, Love. Santy is a messy eater," he advised her, crushing a bit of cookie between his fingers and dropping it back onto the plate.

She'd given him a half smile, but he could tell that she was lost in her mind again.

"What are you thinking about?" he'd asked softly.

Her brown eyes turned upwards to meet his sparkly blue ones.

"Just that we are _really_ good at decorating Christmas trees," she'd whispered.

"Yeah," he'd agreed in his Irish lilt. "We are."

That look had still been in her eye — the contemplative, almost sad one — and he knew one surefire way to get rid of it. He'd hoisted her into his arms and started kissing her neck as he carried her up the stairs.

And then he'd gently made love to her in that big bed with those wonderful red silk sheets. Afterwards he'd tucked her against his side and kissed her forehead, and they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms.

Now Lauren looked at the clock in the kitchen as Ian prepared some peppermint hot chocolate for the three of them. They'd only gone to sleep two and a half hours ago.

She was exhausted, but when they moved into the living room and she watched Ian hoist Declan up onto his shoulders so that he could put the angel on the tree — and then the little boy started eagerly tearing into his presents — she knew that it was worth it.

The note from Clyde briefly crossed her mind, the question of whether or not her mother was actually upset that she wasn't home for Christmas...

Ian's arm curled around her waist and her head rested on his shoulder as they watched Declan playing with all his new toys, pure joy and excitement written across his face. She couldn't imagine stuffing herself into a ball gown and trying to play nice with a bunch of politicians right now, like she would be if she were back in DC —

"Lauren!" Declan cried suddenly. "Look, Santy brought me a train set!"

"Wow!" she exclaimed, eyes widening. "That's amazing! Bring it here, Love, let me see —"

"Can we put it together now?" he asked, those big blue eyes pleading with her.

"Of course," she said, sinking out of Ian's arms onto the floor. Declan climbed into her lap immediately, and she ran her fingers through his curly hair. "Let's see what we've got here, yeah?"

He allowed her to open up the box, and she pulled out the instructions — which read _Some assembly required._

Her brow furrowed. "We're gonna need a screwdriver."

Lauren and Declan turned to Ian with identical expressions on their faces.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Alright, I'll get it. More coffee, Love?"

"Definitely," she replied with a smile, biting her lip lightly.

He ruffled their hair as he exited the living room.

Declan rested his head on Lauren's chest with a sigh, and she rested her chin on the top of his hair.

"Did you like your presents, Love?" she asked him softly.

"Yeah," he said, snuggling into her — she could tell that he was getting sleepy already. He hadn't slept enough the night before. "Lauren?"

"Hmm?" she asked, hugging him against her.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly. "For Christmas."

"Me too, Love."

"This is my favorite Christmas ever," he mumbled sleepily.

"Mine, too," she told him.

He pulled his head away from her so that he could look into her eyes. "Really?"

"Really," she said truthfully, surprising herself — she may have been spending Christmas undercover, but she couldn't remember ever having a better one.

"I love you, Lauren."

"I love you, too, Dec."

Maybe she _was_ home for Christmas.


End file.
